


smother

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Series: coming home [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2738921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been twenty years since the World Cup in Brazil, but James hasn't been able to let go of his feelings for David or his memories of their time together in Portugal.</p><p>A chance encounter with David at a charity event leads him to believe that his feelings aren't as one-sided as he'd previously though, but their relationship fell apart once before and he's hesitant to go down that road again.</p><p>Salome thinks they're both idiots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	smother

**Author's Note:**

> Set twenty years after the World cup, James is 43 and David is 47, but both of them act like children. You don't have to read If I could find the words, to understand this story, but it might be helpful to understand what happened between them in Portugal.
> 
> Dedicated to Laura, for pestering me to write this story, for betaing and offering encouragement, and for inspiring me to be a better person and a better writer.
> 
> All the pictures are [from David's instagram](http://instagram.com/davidluiz_4)
> 
> This fic also has a playlist, which can be found [here](http://8tracks.com/jjjanimefan/smother-a-fanmix)

 

James straightens the tie in the full length mirror, watching his reflection do the same. He smiles, cataloguing the wrinkles that appear at the motion. There isn’t many, his face boyish despite the years, but as he turns his head he catches a flash of silver in his hair and his hand comes up without volition to smooth the perfectly gelled tresses.

 

He’s got dark bags under his eyes, but that’s nothing unusual. Somehow, he’d never been able to sleep well, not even in his own bed, much less the multitude of foreign cities he’s been to over the years. James has gotten used to being the first one up in the mornings, his eyes shooting open at 5 am every day and refusing to shut again. People had always admired his work ethic, but the truth was that being on the training pitch practicing free kicks had always seemed more attractive than just laying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

 

“Papa, are you ready? We’re going to be late!” his daughter Salome yells through the closed door and James grins.

 

“Just a minute, okay? I know you’re in a hurry to see your lover boy, but Papa needs to look nice so he doesn’t embarrass you.”

 

“Christiano isn’t my boyfriend,” she huffs, knocking on the door again. “I bet you’re counting your grey hairs again, that’s why it’s taking so long!”

 

James winces, smoothing his hair down one last time, before grabbing his wallet and opening the door to an unhappy Salome.

 

“About time,” she says, pouting, but unresisting when he tugs her into a brief hug. “I can’t believe you take longer to get ready than I do.”

 

“Ah, but I’m an old man now,” James grins at her eye roll, “these old bones aren’t as fast as they used to be.”

 

“Oh, then I should hold on tight to keep you from falling!” she entwines their arms as they walk down the corridor and James laughs, imitating a limp. She holds him up as promised, though she threatens to drop him if he keeps it up. Her high heels echo off the wooden floor as they walk to the car waiting for them.

 

Salome cuts a striking figure in her dress, her hair expertly curled, and James is struck with the realization that she’s already 21. It feels like it hasn’t been so long since he’d brought her home that first time, tiny and fragile and somehow bigger than the whole world.

 

“You look beautiful,” he says suddenly, knowing that it’s coming out of nowhere. The driver opens the back door and Salome sits, careful not to wrinkle her dress.

 

“Thank you, Papa,” she smiles at him and it’s a familiar smile, one he’d been seeing since she was little, gap-toothed and free of pretense. Daniela had always said she looked the most similar to James when she smiled.

 

He misses Daniela sometimes, when the nights are cold and his heart is empty, but ultimately he knows that splitting up was the best decision they could have made, for themselves and for Salome.

 

They’re driving to a charity event, nothing unusual and nowhere James particularly wants to be, but Salome had insisted. Mostly, or so James suspected, because the handsome Christian Ronaldo Jr. was going to be there and Salome had been nursing a crush on him since she was 5.

 

Maybe he should have said something to her about it, like in the movies, told her that boys only ever wanted one thing and that she was going to get her heart broken. But, honestly? He knew his daughter had a good head on her shoulders and he trusted her to take care of herself. If she wanted to flirt with a cute boy, he wouldn’t be the one to put a stop to it.

 

He’d flirted with a few of his own in his time.

 

As always, the memory brings with it a particular kind of sadness, the phantom feeling of soft curls tickling his cheek and a boisterous laugh. James shakes his head to clear it. He hadn’t thought of David in a while, not since he’d waved at him at an event similar to this one some years ago, before his attention was effectively monopolized by trying to make sense of Gareth’s broken Spanish. Years of playing in Spain and the man still confused his tenses.

 

“What are you thinking of so deeply, Papa?”

 

“Oh, just remembering the good old days when you were content to sit in front of the TV for hours, drooling on my shoulder, instead of dragging your poor father around to charity events,” he tries for a suitably mournful face, but he knows she sees right through him.

 

“Papa! That was when I was a baby!”

 

“No, I’m pretty sure that was last night. You were out like a light as soon as I turned on Terminator 3.”

 

They’re getting nearer to the venue, judging by the bright lights and people in fancy dress stepping over the puddles by the road. It had rained last night, but that was the thing about London; it always did. James liked visiting it for a few days, but before long he was longing for the much milder climates of his home.

 

“I was tired!” Salome protests, gathering up her bag, while the driver jumps out, to open the door. “You should have woken me up.”

 

James’s response is lost in the roar of the crowd and he puts on a smile for the flashing cameras. It’s been a few years since he stood on a football field for anything other than charity games, but it’s good to see that the name James Rodriguez still means something in the football world. Young, talented players now cite him as their influence and some Columbian boy is probably being labeled the next him right now. It’s flattering. It also means that he’s started taking anti-rheumatics earlier than the average man, but he supposes that some prices must be paid.

 

The event goes as expected; speeches he forgets as soon as the speaker finishes and excellent wine that he sips slowly, searching the gathered for any familiar face.

 

“Look!” Salome grabs his arm, pointing discretely at a table some distance away. “Is that David Luiz?”

 

It is. Irrationally, James wonders if it’s too early to call back their driver to take them back to the hotel. They could watch Terminator 4.

 

Unfortunately, Salome has other ideas, and she drags him from his seat as soon as the speeches finish and the atmosphere turns more casual.

 

“You have to introduce me,” she says and James desperately wants to dig in his heels and run in the other direction, “I haven’t met him yet.”

 

He knows what she’s thinking about, why she’s so curios; an iconic picture from his first world cup, his eyes red-rimmed and David’s pointed finger, a staple of fair-play montages everywhere. Salome had seen it often, had always watched the yellow-green framed shirt in their foyer with a little more interest than the others. If he tries to run away now, all it would accomplish is to make her more curious.

 

It’s too late anyway. David’s already spotted him.

 

James watches David’s expressive eyes widen in surprise, before his face changes into a familiar wide grin as he gets up to meet them halfway. Despite himself, James is warmed. He reaches out his hand and meets David’s in a strong grip.

 

“Rivais.” David breathes into the silence between them and James smiles, cataloging the changes in him.

 

David’s smile has deep laughter lines and the corners of his lips are crinkled up, almost like his smile is too big for just his lips. There are lines of silver winding their way through his trademark curls and they catch the light when David shakes them out of his eyes. There’s a serious set to his shoulders though, straightened by the years, and his hand it warm where it grips James’s. He’s grown older, and yet, there’s something in him that James still recognizes, a wild energy that he can feel himself responding to, despite the years. ‘Rivales’ is on the tip of his tongue, waiting to burst free, but in the moment, caught in David’s familiar gaze, it feels inadequate.

 

“It’s good to see you, David,” he says instead, suddenly aware that they’d been holding hands for much longer than strictly appropriate and that his daughter is watching them with increasing suspicion.

 

“You too. It’s been too long.” David lets go of his hand and James hates himself a little for missing the warmth of it immediately. His heart is racing in his chest.

 

“Oh, this is my daughter Salome,” James tugs her forward by the elbow. “I don’t know if you remember her…”

 

“Of course I do.” David gives her one of his characteristic charming smiles, grasping her hand. She giggles and James almost rolls his eyes. It figures that she wouldn’t be immune to the Luiz charm; God knows her father wasn’t.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Luiz. I’ve heard a lot of things about you,” she says, grinning at him conspiratorly.

 

“Only good things I hope?” David’s eyes dart to his, and he looks almost worried. James answers without thinking.

 

“The bad ones aren’t for her ears anyway.”

 

James almost bites his tongue, wishing he could take the words back, but David talks right over the awkwardness.

 

“Excellent! Who would have thought that tiny baby would become such a beautiful young woman,” David frowns, “it makes me feel old.”

 

“My Papa says that all the time!” Salome says. “You two are a match made in heaven.”

 

David laughs, but it’s got an edge to it. He looks at James from the corner of his eye and their gazes meet. James looks away first, coughing awkwardly.

 

Salome notices the discomfort immediately and she gets a look in her eyes that James knows means trouble. He opens his mouth to stop her, but she cuts him off.

 

“Oh, look, there’s Christiano! I’m going to run over to say hello,” she pats James’s arm, “actually, Mr. Luiz, can I leave my Papa in your care for the time being? He doesn’t talk to that many people these days. I’m afraid he’s turning into a hermit.”

 

Then she sweeps off into the crowd, leaving them both staring in open mouthed surprise.

 

“Well-” “I’m-”

 

“She’s a firecracker,” David finally speaks, “reminds me of you when you were younger, all that energy.”

 

James crosses his arms and pulls out his favorite pout, though he can’t quite hide the smile playing around his lips.

 

“Are you implying I’m old and tired now, David Luiz, because I’m sure there’s a football field around here where I can prove you wrong?”

 

And David throws his head back and laughs, and after a moment, James joins him in his mirth. People are probably looking, but he’s retired now; he’s allowed not to care.

 

The thought is sobering. He watches the grin crinkling in the corner of David’s brown eyes, and realizes that if he reached out right now and smoothed them with his fingertips, nobody would care, and if they would, he could afford to ignore them.

 

“So,” David says and it pulls James out of his reverie. “I guess you’re stuck with me until your daughter comes to collect you.”

 

“I guess so,” James smiles and looks around, feeling nervous, but his eyes keep returning to David. “I’ll survive.”

 

“Will you?” David looks uncharacteristically serious, “because if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were avoiding me. I haven’t seen you at any of this year’s events and when I did, you disappeared as soon as I caught sight of you. You don’t even tweet me!”

 

“Nobody uses twitter anymore, David. Honestly, you’re the only one I know that does.” James says, mind racing. How do you tell someone that you ran away at the sight of them, because they still made you feel things you never wanted to feel in the first place?

 

“You could have texted!” David is almost whining, but James reads the smile playing in the corner of his lips.

 

“I don’t have your number anymore,” James shrugs, “and I don’t get out much these days.”

 

“What do you do, then?” David says, sweeping the curls out of his eyes. He needs a haircut, James notices absently, at that length the hair could be a hazard on the field…

 

“I’m catching up on sleep, mostly. And I spend time with Salome. I also have a cat, but she’s with my sister right now.”

 

“How’s Daniela?” David asks, looking around as if she might appear at any moment.

 

“Good. Or at least she was the last time I saw her a few months ago.”

 

David looks surprised, but James cuts off the oncoming question.

 

“We’ve been divorced for five years now.”

 

“I’m sorry,” David’s eyes soften and he reaches out to catch James’s elbow. It tingles where they touch.

 

“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. Salome moved in with me soon after, so we spent a lot of time together.”

 

“That’s why you have such a great relationship,” David says “and why you’re so similar.”

 

The conversation spirals from there, to James’s cat and David’s dog, to old teammates and old friends, and the newest in football. James can’t remember the last time he spoke so much to someone that wasn’t Salome or his cat. It ends way too quickly. Salome emerges from the crowd to tap James’s arm and when he looks up, he realizes that the floor is almost empty. He’d been so absorbed in David that he’d forgotten all about the time.

 

“I see you’ve taken good care of my Papa,” Salome says to David, “I hope he wasn’t too boring. Did he try to show you pictures of his cat?”

 

David bursts out laughing and James blushes, thinking of all the pictures of his cat Pelusa that he had saved on his phone, and that he and David enthusiastically went through. David hadn’t complained, but maybe he now secretly thought of James as a lonely cat lady.

 

“Nothing James has ever done could be boring to me.” David says, and James can feel his blush run hotter. Salome is watching him from behind her eyelashes, smiling knowingly.

 

They fall into a brief moment of awkward silence where James is trying frantically to find something else to say, but drawing up blank. David comes to his rescue.

 

“It seems like we should be going,” David says. “The cleaners might throw us out otherwise.”

 

James looks around and notices the menacing cleaning lady clearing the table violently. She softens under the bright smile David aims in her direction and returns the greeting. David then offers James and Salome his arms to escort them out.

 

James slips his through David’s almost without thinking, through if the way his heart jumps when they touch is any indication, he should have thought it through better. On David’s other side, Salome looks as unruffled as ever, through when they eyes meet, she winks at him. He hopes she’d had the presence of mind to call their drive, because right now he’s too distracted by the soft part of David’s elbow somehow radiating warmth even through the layers of their suits.

 

Finally, they arrive at the entrance and James breathes a sigh of relief, partly at the sight of their driver in the driveway and partly because being physically separated from David makes it easier to breathe.

 

“It was really nice to see you, David.” James says, fiddling with his cufflinks. The driver holding the door shifts uncomfortably.

 

“You too. And I’m so glad I finally got to meet you, Salome,” David says and Salome laughs and nods, before studiously peering at the contents of her purse. “Will I see you again?”

 

“I don’t know.” James says and then suddenly realizes: “I don’t even have your phone number!”

 

“Ah, hold on, I don’t have yours either!” David pulls out his phone and James rattles off his phone number. Then David does the same and by the time James clicks the save button, his hands are just barely shaking.

 

The number is familiar, because he used to know it by heart once upon a time. It’s a jarring realization; David never changed his number.

 

It means that every lonely morning he’s spent since he retired, breathing deeply through the pain and wishing he had someone to distract him, he could have just dialed that familiar number and…something. He doesn’t know what, but something would have changed.

 

David shakes hands with both of them and then waves as the car pulls away. James watches him through the back window, lit up by streetlights painting shadows across his face and suddenly feels much older than 43.

 

They drive for a while in almost silence, the radio playing some pop hit that James is unfamiliar with and doesn’t care to know. Salome finally breaks the silence.

 

“Papa?” she says. “You and David weren’t just rivals, were you?”

 

“We were…friends,” James says, then explains when he sees her expectant look. “I had a pre-season trial with Benfica before I went to Porto. We met there and we…connected.”

 

“You fell in love,” she says and the force of those words spoken so bluntly makes something twist in his stomach. He looks away, out at the streetlights passing by in brilliant Technicolor.

 

“How did you know? Is it written on my forehead?”

 

“Nothing like that,” she shrugs and he watches her reflection in the window. “It’s just that I’ve known you for all of my life. If I couldn’t tell what you look like when you love someone by now, then I’d be a failure as a daughter.”

 

“We weren’t together in the strictest sense of the world. It just happened.” James sighs. “Back then…, well, the world wasn’t so progressive. We could never have gone public and we didn’t even want to. It was our secret.”

 

“Did Mama know?”

 

“No. When Daniela and I started getting serious, we called it off,” James suddenly straightens, turning so he’s looking at Salome. “I was never unfaithful to your mother, Salome, and I loved her. This wasn’t why we split, you need to know that.”

 

“I know that, Papa. I know.”

 

She must read something of his distress on his face, because she leans forward to put her arms around him. He reaches up to smooth her hair, letting himself take the comfort she’s offering. In that moment, as he had many times before, he thanks God for giving him his beautiful daughter. Out of all the trophies and the wins, she’s by far the most precious.

 

Right before the car arrives at the hotel, she squeezes him a little tighter and leans her lips against his ear.

 

“But you loved him, didn’t you?” she asks and he drops his head onto her shoulder, and barely perceptibly nods.

 

 

*

 

 

The next morning dawns bright and rain free, and James sighs over the missed opportunity for sightseeing, while lugging around Salome’s heavy bags. She’s returning to her university in Bogota today, while his flight to Cúcuta is leaving tomorrow.

 

Saying goodbye is hard, but over the years they’d done it often enough that the hug and kiss has the exact right amount of pressure that makes them felt comforted and reassured.

 

Still, he stands at the gate long after she’d already moved through the security line, before turning and walking out.

 

A boy recognizes him on his way out, wide-eyed and stammering in rapid-fire French. I’d been a while since James had cause to use the language of love, but he does his best to reply to his questions, bending down to sign a strip of paper, while the baffled parents watch.

 

The ride to the hotel is uneventful. The cabbie isn’t talkative and the classical music playing in the car is almost meditative. James watches the grey facades of the buildings pass by in a blur, only occasionally interrupted by a bright splash of color from a dress someone is wearing or a carefully constructed store front. It occurs to him that he has no plans for the afternoon. No obligations and nothing to look forward to, until Salome reaches her destination and sends him a text. There are probably people he could call and make plans with, old friends that would smile when they heard his voice, but at that moment he can’t remember their names or their numbers.

 

Sitting in a generic cab in an unfamiliar city, watching people go about their lives through the window, he feels hopelessly and achingly alone.

 

His phone chimes into his thoughts with the jarring sound of a text, just in time, because the cab stops in front of his hotel. Then, it’s time to navigate the payment and search his jacket for his key card, finding it in his back pocket. By the time he arrives in his room, he’s forgotten all about the text and it’s only after he’d already changed into sweatpants and a warm hoodie that he remembers.

 

The display says ‘David’.

 

He feels a fission of heat run down his back, thumbs flying to open the message and almost erasing it in the process.

 

The text isn’t a text at all, but in fact, a photo. A photo of David pulling the stupidest face imaginable into the camera. James feels the laughter bubbling in his throat, and he stands alone at a generic counter top in an unfamiliar city and laughs.

 

James doesn’t know what compels him to do it, but he takes a picture of himself against the counter, posing with the most dramatic pout he can manage, pressing the icon that will send it to David’s phone.

 

He regrets it as soon as it sends, of course, but he doesn’t get to fret for long, because his phone chimes alarmingly soon. When he opens it, he feels his worry evaporate, replaced by the familiar buzz of competition. David just sent him a picture of himself attempting his own dramatic pout. He’s drawn fake tears on his face. James can’t just let that fly, so he finds a silly souvenir hat Salome bought him as a joke and grins into the camera.

 

They go back and forth like that for the better half of an hour; two middle aged men sending each other increasingly silly pictures of themselves and giggling like teenagers.

 

James is just waiting for the answer to his latest one, perusing the room service menu, when another text arrives. It’s actual text this time, not a photo.

 

 _‘Okay, you win._ ’ it says. _‘Amazingly creative use of generic hotel decorations.’_

 

Then, almost immediately his phone buzzes with a follow up:

 

_‘Dinner tomorrow?’_

 

James takes a deep breath, finger tapping on the edge of his smartphone. There’s a ticket home in the drawer by the bed, dated tomorrow morning. It’s raining again outside and it makes his knees ache, a phantom pain born from a lifetime of tackles. He’s tired and he misses his daughter already. And yet…

 

 _‘Okay. As long as you’re taking me somewhere good.’_ he texts back. His chest suddenly feels freer, as much as his heart is already pounding in anticipation.

 

He knows he should be calculating how much clothes he’s packed, or call the airline to tell them to call off his ticket, or worry about how easily he’d made the decision to stay, but all he does is grin down at the restaurant details David sends him.

 

When room service arrives, James curls up in front of the TV with it. He finds a Premier league match on, an old rerun of a game between Chelsea and Liverpool, apparently part of some nostalgia thing. David isn’t playing and James is grateful, because it would have been rather more irony than he’s actually equipped to handle. He texts David instead.

 

_‘Chelsea jersey circa 2019 is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.’_

 

 _‘Are you shitting on my club?’_ David texts back almost instantly _‘I thought you said I looked good in blue.’_

And the strange part is, James can remember saying that, texting David one too silent morning, half-drunk on loneliness and regrets that were threatening to choke him. He just can’t believe that David remembers too.

 

 _‘Not this shade. It looks like a dolphin threw up on them.’_ He sends back, fingers flying over the keys as if the haste could keep him from writing something more serious instead. There’s silence on the other end for several minutes and James frowns suspiciously.

 

 _‘Are you googling dolphin vomit?’_ he writes.

 

 _‘No.’_ David texts him and James smiles at the obvious lie ‘ _It’s not blue by the way. You’re a liar, James Rodriguez.’_

 

 _‘At least I don’t have to google dolphin vomit, David, come on.’_ The commentator is rambling on and on about something in English, and James knows that if he tried hard enough he could probably decipher it, but he lets it wash over him instead, the sharp rise and fall in pitch comforting.

 

 _‘I didn’t go to college.’_ David sends him and James can almost see the sullen look on his face. On the screen, a young player is taking his time with the ball, looking for his teammates and James sees at least five ways for him to pass for a goal. The boy takes none of them and loses the ball quickly, the defense scrambling to defend against the counter-attack.

 

His phone vibrates.

 

 _‘You know this kid, Brown,’_ on screen the same young man lines up to take a free kick _‘he was called the next James Rodriguez once.’_ He scores a beautiful goal and James realizes with a start that David is watching the same game.

 

 _‘I know who he is. He plays for Monaco now.’_ James watches the boy celebrate with his teammates. There’s one that lingers after all the others have gone, pressing their foreheads together in an intimate gesture witnessed by thousands. _‘At least he doesn’t have my dashing good looks.’_

 

 _‘His haircut is pretty unfortunate.’_ David agrees and James can almost imagine him, somewhere in the city in an equally empty apartment. He wonders if David planned to watch the match or if he turned it on just because James was watching it. In any case, the silly trash talk is familiar enough. They used to watch games like this often, turning on their TVs on opposite sides of Portugal and trashing the jerseys, the haircuts and the stupid decisions. It’d made James feel connected to David and it does the same now.

 

He thinks briefly of the empty apartment in Cúcuta, how cold it feels, with only Pelusa’s warm purring weight for company, and how he’d had the right number in his phone the whole time and never knew.

 

Outside, the rain finally stops falling, the moisture evaporating from the sidewalks, making the air heavy and humid. James curls up on the unfamiliar sheets of the hotel bed, fingers still curled around his phone.

 

Across the city, David smiles sleepily at the line of text trailing into incoherence.

 

 

*

 

 

James fiddles with his phone, scrolling down his messages to David, letting them pull a small smile to his face while sipping on a glass of red wine, poured with care by a waiter a few minutes ago. It’s good wine, hearty, but smooth on the way down, chosen off a wine list James could barely understand. Outside, the sun has barely sunk over the horizon and the streetlights are turning on.

 

James is early.

 

He watches the clock and it occurs to him, not for the first time, that he’s coming across as over-eager and impatient. It’s like seeing David again, listening to his voice, touching his skin, has brought all of his leftover burnt down feelings to the forefront. He feels like he did that year after they’d met, when the longing had built up in him like an itch he couldn’t scratch, until he saw David again.

 

James shakes himself, blinking at the silhouettes of people passing by the windows. He doesn’t usually like to sit by the window, as years in the spotlight had given him an appreciation for privacy, but it seems like David had chosen this table specifically, had listed it in the reservation, so James tries to settle more comfortably in his seat. He has to keep stopping his leg from jiggling under the table. He glances at the clock again; still too early.

 

Too eager, like a teenager waiting for their crush with a bouquet of wilted dandelions.

 

“You’re here,” David says behind him, and James turns around so quickly he gives himself whiplash. David looks flustered and disheveled; one edge of the collar of his blue button-up is sticking almost straight up and his curls are slightly damp from the rain.

 

Standing between two tables, blocking the way of the increasingly panicking waiter, and trying to covertly straighten his shirt, and David is still the best thing James has ever seen.

 

“There was no traffic,” is all James can come up with, despite the fact that it’s summer and he’d taken the tube to get to the restaurant. He struggles to his feet, somewhat lightheaded, and offers his hand. David ignores it elegantly and sweeps him into a hug instead.

 

James has a brief moment of panic, when those arms come around him and almost pulls away, but something about the situation is so achingly familiar that it makes his knees go week and all he can do is cling on.

 

David changed his cologne, James realizes, with a flash of disappointment. It makes sense of course; an up-and-coming footballer would wear a different fragrance than a man in his middle age. Still, it’s not the same smell that’d lingered on James’s pillow long after the door had shut behind David’s retreating figure, when he’d buried his face in it and squeezed his eyes shut to pretend for just one more hour that David would still be there when he opened them again.

 

A waiter coughs behind them and they break apart, embarrassed.

 

“You know, just once I’d like to arrive somewhere before you do,” David says, but he’s smiling and James smiles back, hopelessly, gesturing to their seats.

 

“Sorry,” he says, shrugging as he settles in the beautiful, but uncomfortable chair. “I got us some wine though, as a peace offering.”

 

“Oh?” David raises an eyebrow, picking up the glass the waiter pours for him. He inspects the liquid carefully before taking a sip and James would have been insulted, if he weren’t so pleased at the surprised expression on David’s face. “This is good wine!”

 

“In my defense, I don’t think they have bad wine here,” James tips his chin to indicate their surroundings; elegant and modern, with impeccably dressed waiters and delicious smells coming from the kitchen. “I just pointed at something on the menu.”

 

“You almost had me there,” David lets out a relived laugh. “I was afraid you’d turned into some kind of wine connoisseur while you were gone and that I’d have to spend the rest of the evening bullshitting just so I could impress you.”

 

“But now that you know I’m just plain old James, you can just be your usual self?” James hides his smile behind the wineglass, watching David grin.

 

“Exactly,” David catches sight of James’s raised eyebrow. “No, I mean…that came out wrong. There’s nothing plain about you!”

 

James watches him splutter for a while, trying to keep a straight face, but ultimately fails, breaking out in a grin.

 

“It’s okay, I know what you meant. I’m just messing with you.” James smiles at the dawning look of realization on David’s face. “Besides, you’re plenty impressive enough for me.”

 

David’s response is interrupted by the arrival of the waiter who hands them their menus. David starts asking him questions and they chat in English.

 

James watches David’s face and listens for familiar inflections in the foreign language. There aren’t many; David had played in England for long enough that none of his words are awkward or stunted. It isn’t that surprising, because James can still remember all those times when David had giggled over typically Colombian phrases, repeating them out loud in James’s tiny living room, until James had gotten tired of correcting him and had kissed him instead.

 

“…James?”

 

“Hm, what?” James startles from his contemplation, finding both David and the waiter staring at him.

 

“I asked what you wanted to order,” David repeats himself and James nods, considering.

 

“You know what,” he says, “why don’t you order for me? You know what I like.”

 

And it’s presumptuous, maybe, to expect that David still remembers how James hates lamb, but fosters an unreasonable obsession with beef and that he likes vegetables, but the sight of spinach makes him queasy. They’d never gone out to have dinner together, but had spent hours trying to decide what elaborate recipes they’d make if they had more culinary skills, so they might as well have.

 

David nods, turning back to the waiter, saying something in rapid-fire English that James probably could have deciphered with enough concentration, but elects not to. He wants to be surprised.

 

“So,” David turns back when the waiter leaves, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table, “does Salome play football? If she’s anything like her father, I’ve not doubt that she’ll take the world by storm.”

 

“She did.” James says, leaning back into his seat. “And she was good. Great technique, very fast. Arsenal and Real came calling for a trial.”

 

“What happened?” David asks, frowning.

 

“I’m not sure. I was going through my third knee operation then, so maybe it was seeing her Papa crying from the strain that made her reconsider if it was worth it,” James shrugs, ignoring the twinge from his knee.

 

He can see the concern on David’s face, so he cuts him off. He doesn’t  feel comfortable talking about his knee or the other injuries he still struggles with. David has his own to worry about; they’re sitting close enough that James can feel the displacement of air every time David rotates his ankle.

 

“She’s studying medicine now,” James says. “Way smarter than her old man, in any case.”

 

“That doesn’t even surprise me.” David says, grinning. “Her Papa is handsome, but he sometimes wears mismatched socks and pours in his milk before the cereal; he can’t be that bright.”

 

James scoffs, throwing a bit of ripped up napkin across the table at David. It catches in his hair, hanging in there like a snowflake ornament on a Christmas tree for a moment before David brushes it away.

 

“Did you just throw a paper ball at me?” he sounds so indignant that James can’t help himself. He throws another one.

 

It descends into an all out war, with them throwing bits of paper at each other, giggling and trying to keep quiet. Ultimately, a rolled up ball of paper ends up in James’s wine and they just lose it, roaring with laughter in the middle of a crowded restaurant, drawing astonished looks from the patrons.

 

They eventually calm down, but James has to keep shushing David’s giggles while fishing the paper out of his wine and he’s pretty sure they’ve successfully captured the attention of the whole restaurant. Watching David across the table, lose-limbed and flushed, he’s finding it hard to regret a thing.

 

“So, Salome is in Colombia now?” David asks, transparently attempting to move the conversation to a more serious track. James realizes that they’ve managed to drift closer during their laughing fit, feeling David’s knee press against his own when David shifts. He notes the warmth of David’s skin through the layers of cotton and has a brief urgent impulse to move away, to leave, to hide. His leg stays put. Maybe he even presses it a little bit closer.

 

“Yeah. She wanted to go to the charity ball and she loves London, so I figured we could spend the week here, together. Honestly, I’ve been missing her while she’s off at university and the house has been much too empty.” James bites his tongue, aware that he might have revealed more than he wanted to. David doesn’t need to know how lonely it’s been since his daughter left; he’s probably thinking James is pathetic anyway.

 

“It’s always tough when they fly out of the nest.” David says sagely and it’s on the tip of James tongue, to ask why David never settled down and had children of his own, when it was obvious to everyone how much he’d wanted them.

 

“What’s the deal with her and Christiano Jr. though? There must be a story there.” David’s question derails him.

 

“Oh, you bet,” James sits back into his chair, grinning at the memory, “she was maybe five years old and I brought her to this club function, because we forgot to find a babysitter and Daniela had to work. She was animated for a while, but eventually grew bored and started crying. So, while I’m there, trying to calm her down and dodging displeased glances from the club officials, Cris Jr. wanders over, takes one look at her and offers her the ice cream cone he’s holding. She stopped crying instantly and I swear you could see hearts appear in her eyes. She’s been after him ever since.”

 

David bursts out laughing, holding a hand in front of his mouth to hide it, while James watches on indulgently. He’s used to telling the story and it’s a hit at parties, especially when Salome hears him telling it and punches him in the arm.

 

“And what does Christiano Ronaldo Sr. have to say about this?” David asks when he gains control of himself.

 

“I think he’s already chosen the names for the grandchildren,” James says, laughing a little, “as well as the clubs they’ll play for.”

 

David laughs again, and a curl falls forward to stick to his cheek. His face is flushed from the laughter and the wine, and his eyes are shining in the dim lighting. James wants to touch him so much it hurts.

 

Their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of the food and James grins at the beef steak on his plate, pilled with vegetables that show no trace of spinach. He cuts off a bite, closing his eyes in bliss when it hits his taste buds.  When he opens his eyes, David is watching him with a strange expression.

 

“It’s good,” James mutters, almost defensively, watching David’s face break out in a grin.

 

“I’m glad,” is all David says, ducking for a mouthful of his bowl of pasta. It leaves strings of cheese clinging to his fork. It also looks delicious.

 

“Hey, yours looks good too.” James says, widening his eyes, knowing that it’s an expression David always had trouble resisting.

 

“Oh, no, you don’t!” David hunches protectively over his meal, frowning at the fork James is trying to sneak past him. “You don’t even like cheese!”

 

“I love cheese!” James says, adding a wobble to his lip. “I was just never allowed to have it. Porto’s nutritionist was a slave driver.”

 

“Well, this is my pasta and my cheese, and you can’t have them!”

 

“Please, David?” and that’s really all it takes for David to sigh, scoop up a bit of pasta on his fork and stick it across the table.

 

James blinks at the fork and then at David, watching him impatiently. He didn’t really need the pasta, had fallen into old patterns almost unconsciously, but now, when David was offering it to him on his fork, the whole situation had gained an unexpected air of intimacy.

 

He leans forward to wrap his lips around the fork, then chews, eyes averted. Looking up, he finds David drinking his wine with intense concentration, avoiding James’s gaze.

 

“Mine is better.” James concludes and David laughs, but it has an edge to it. Nevertheless, the comment breaks the weird tension brewing between them, conversation flowing easily from weird dietary demands to former team mates.

 

They’d both kept in touch with Marcelo, who was driving his children up the wall with his practical jokes, citing his old age as an excuse to get out of punishment. Neymar was apparently playing in his local senior league, still drawing hordes of swooning housewives to the sidelines of the pitch.

 

The mention of his arguably biggest rival causes James’s stomach to churn nervously. He’d managed to build something like a friendship with the Brazilian superstar, born from a mutual understanding of the pressure both of them had honed themselves under. Watching the look in David’s eyes as he talks about his former team captain, it becomes apparent that he means something entirely different to him.

 

Suddenly, James is hit with this irrational feeling of jealousy that like in all things, Neymar is attempting to overshadow him even here. He wonders about all the hours spent away at national team training; more hours together than he and David ever had.

 

Watching David’s face cycle through expressions as he tells a story, James wonders if Neymar ever ran his hands through David’s curls while they curled up on one bed, sharing thoughts and dreams and kisses.

 

“James? Is everything alright?” David’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts and James realizes he’s clutching his fork so tight that his knuckles had grown white from the strain.

 

“I…it’s nothing.” James loosens his grip around the glass, rubbing his knuckles with his thumb self-consciously. David frowns.

 

“I was always under the impression that you two were friendly, but maybe I was wrong.” David looks so worried that James has to smile, the last of the tension in his palms unwinding.

 

“No, we are. Our respective positions meant we couldn’t exactly be close, but he’s never been anything but kind and friendly when we spoke.”

 

David nods thoughtfully, winding the last of his pasta around the fork. The conversation quiets and James is grateful for the arrival of the waiter that comes to pick up their dishes, because it gets them out of the awkward quiet spot.

 

“Dessert?” the waiter asks and that’s a word James is very familiar with. David grins at him across the table, almost a challenge.

 

“Shall we?” he says and James forgets all about the blood sugar pamphlets Salome left at his house a few months ago and accepts the dessert menu with a matching smile.

 

The chocolate cake is sinfully good. David’s pleased sounds even more so.

 

“So,” James says, eyeing their empty plates sadly, “you said you were working with the Chelsea youth academy?”

 

And it’s like lighting up a firework, the way David’s face transforms into the biggest, warmest smile, how he straightens up in his seat and starts talking. It’s dizzying, hearing the obvious joy he gets from working with children. He knows all of their names and talents, and James watches his eyes light up and his hands wave about, as if to emphasize the way Marie can kick the ball better than any boy in her age group or how Bobby measures his passes.

 

David’s gesticulating grows wilder with his excitement and from the corner of his eye James catches the wine glass wobbling dangerously, but he desperately doesn’t want David to stop talking. So he does the only thing he can think of.

 

The next time David brings his hands down to emphasize something; James reaches out to take them in his own.

 

David’s voice doesn’t falter and he doesn’t even seem to notice, except for how his fingers curl around James’s. His hands are warm and James can feel the scar on the underside of his thumb, a relic from a collision with another player when he was still a kid. They’re familiar hands and he’s held them like this before, had been held by them in turn.

 

James had woken up in the middle of the night, flushed and panting, from the phantom memory of David’s hands and watching them now, their fingers entwined, he realizes that his desire for their touch and for the man behind them hadn’t changed at all, despite the years.

 

It’s frightening, as much as it makes his heart flutter in his chest.

 

They stay like that and James steadily loses himself in David’s voice, in his stories, stopping only to interject with his own experiences with Salome. James can’t remember the last time he’s felt this comfortable with another person that wasn’t his daughter.

 

As with such things, it ends much too quickly, a discreetly slipped check letting them know they’d overstayed their welcome. They pull apart reluctantly and David pays, like he promised, even when James offers.

 

They collect their coats, stepping out into the damp London air, the sky having long since turned dark, clouds and streetlights obscuring any hint of stars.

 

James watches David struggle with his coat for a moment before stepping in to help him, reaching instinctively to fix the collar afterward, smoothing his hand against the cloth. He moves away after, putting up space between them, always conscious of the people around them, always looking for that flash of a camera, even when all he wants to do is move closer, knowing that David puts off heat like a furnace and feeling like he’s been cold for way too long.

 

But James doesn’t move closer. He feels like he isn’t allowed to, after all of these years. David just keeps watching him with this soft smile on his face and James feels almost like he’s waiting for something to happen, for James to give him some sort of sign and it suddenly makes him almost mad, that David should expect some guidance from James, when it was after all David who always had all the answers in their relationship and James can barely even follow his own life these days.

 

“So,” David’s voice breaks through his thoughts and his anger drains away, leaving him tired and ashamed of his thoughts, “do you have anywhere else to be tonight?”

 

“No, not really,” James says, shrugging his shoulders self-consciously, “unless you count my date with the hotel mini-bar and an Aston Villa nostalgia game marathon.”

 

 “Aston Villa?” David’s lips curl up in a frown and James has to duck to hide his smile. “It’s my duty to save you from that then. Walk with me? I used to live around here; I know all the best spots.”

 

“And by that you mean the dive bars and the bingo parlors, right?” James grins. Secretly, he’s relived, because the decision is out of his hands. “Lead the way then, though I’m sorry to be missing the Aston Villa:Wimbledon game of 1997. I hear it’s a real treat.”

 

They set off down the street, walking closely together, their arms brushing where the street narrows. It’s still early evening and there are quite a few people out, couples, groups of friends and the occasional jogger. David points out places to him, explaining the memories behind them, slowly drawing a picture for James to put together, of a bright young man searching for a connection far away from home and everything he knew. It makes James ache a little, knowing that in the span of a few months he’d forfeited his right to know that young man; that the two of them had grown so distant that James was only hearing those stories now, instead of when they happened and meant the most.

 

“That’s the post office where I’d go to pick up my mother’s care package every week.” David says, gesturing to a dilapidated building sandwiched between a bar and a travel agent’s. “I guess they’re shutting them all down these days.”

 

“Did she send them every week?”

 

“Yeah. Some of my favorite packaged goods and drinks, or CDs and magazines I couldn’t get here. And always a different quote from the Bible, written on our best writing paper.” David smiles, but his eyes are sad. “I used to read them to her when she was struggling with chemo. She said it was one of the things that got her through.”

 

“She sounds like an amazing woman,” is all James can say, thinking about his father, now living alone in the house James built for him and his mother. James had never met David’s mother or his father, and David had never met his, but now he wishes he could. They might help him understand the man walking by his side, smiling and waving at a passing dog.

 

“She is. A big fan of yours too.”

 

“Oh, really? Now you have to tell me more.” James says, watching from the corner of his eye as David brightens and starts animatedly explaining how his mother had insisted on seeing James’s shirt first and how she’d kept asking him, even years later, about how that ‘dear boy from Colombia was doing and was he still scoring such beautiful goals?’.

 

James smiles and laughs, but truthfully, his heart isn’t entirely in it. It’s a humbling realization; that David might have needed him, might have ached for their connection in particular, even as distorted as it would have been by distance and phone static, and that James might have let him down in some capacity, even though they’d been separated by then, their goodbyes firm.

 

“Huh,” David frowns, pointing out a modern store front, “that used to be a bakery. They had the best croissants; even better than the ones in Paris. But don’t tell them I said that. They might take away my honorary citizenship. ”

 

“We’re getting old.” James says, bumping his hip gently against David’s. “The world is changing, my friend. And there is no way they gave you an honorary citizenship.”

 

“Did so!” David yells, drawing attention from some of the passersby that makes them both descend into laughter.

 

James keeps his eyes on the road ahead and the people passing them by, trying to stop himself from staring at David like a lovesick teenager. A couple walks by, two young women, palms entwined between them with the ease of long familiarity, heads drawn together as they laugh. And another one, two men with a baby stroller, looking the kind of tired James can remember from Salome’s first year, when she absolutely wouldn’t sleep through the night unless one of them carried her around for at least two hours.

 

James remembers watching the press conference of the first footballer to come out. Remembers, how in the immediate silence after the announcement, his hands had shaken so much that he’d clutched one of Salome’s plush bears so his wife wouldn’t notice. He remembers the relief when the regulations had grown harsh enough that no-one could think of an insult for the word ‘bisexual’. How in twenty years it had grown normal to see wives as well as husbands cheering on the sidelines.

 

One of David’s stories startles him into laughter and he catches sight of himself and David in a store front window, walking close together and grinning. He briefly worries if anyone that passes them thinks they’re a couple, and is surprised by how little he cares.

 

Changing times indeed.

 

The streets grow steadily emptier, the further they walk from the center, and offices turn into houses and small businesses. It never occurs to James to ask where they’re going, immersed as he is in the conversation, so he doesn’t pay much attention to their surroundings, until David stops him.

 

“This is where I lived, when I played for Chelsea,” he says, pointing at a modern looking apartment building, all glass and wood paneling. He then takes hold of James’s elbow and pulls him a few steps forward. “And this is what I wanted to show you!”

 

It turns out to be a fairly large practice field. It’s only half lit by the streetlights from the road, the neons on it shut off now that the people are gone, and James can make out the goalposts in the distance only due to the sheer familiarity of the view.

James smiles.

“What are you grinning about?” David asks, reaching up to pull back a stray curl from where it’s fallen in front of his eyes. On the way down, his elbow hits James and he apologizes.

 

“Football fields are the same everywhere.” James says, softly, preoccupied by the tingling spot on his upper arm. Something is wrong, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.

 

“What are you talking about, of course they’re different. Did you ever play in South Africa…” and off he goes, launching into a story that James should be listening to, but can’t, because there’s a weight sinking in his stomach.

 

He’s standing on David’s left side.

 

David is left-handed and he used to know to that, had learned to settle on the other side of the bed or the couch so David’s elbow wouldn’t keep jabbing into his side when he talked or to be in easy reach if David decided to pull him closer. It was subconscious. It’s such a minor thing to forget and yet…

 

If he’s forgotten this, what else has he forgotten?

 

Doubt settles over him like a blanket and he takes a step to the side, putting some distance between them. David doesn’t even seem to notice, grinning brightly at his own story and looking out at the field.

 

James shakes his head, trying to get rid of his thoughts, but it gnaws at him. There was a reason their relationship didn’t work out the last time. It would be foolish to forget about it, even when he was almost drunk on David’s closeness, on the sound of his voice dimming into the empty space, the street light casting a halo around his head.

 

He has to look away, tries to get himself back on track. The embroidered logo on a half deflated football in the bushes catches his eye like a savior and suddenly he feels surer, more grounded.

 

He paces over to pick it up, wet and gritty from use, then taps it gently between his palms, testing the firmness of it and judging it adequate. He’d played with less, on the dusty streets of Cúcuta.

 

James lets the ball fall, balancing it perfectly on the side of his foot, then bouncing it a few times, letting the familiar sound settle him. But, the leather shoes he’s wearing, while perfect for an important night out, are in no way practical for handling a football. So he lets the ball go, leaning down to untie his shoelaces.

 

“James, what are you doing?” he hears David say and smiles as he feels his sock clad feet sink into the wet mud on the ground.

 

“Can’t play football in our fancy shoes, now can we? Come on, you too.”

 

“You want to play? Now?”

 

“I always want to play. So do you, I can tell. Come on, it’s been way too long. Let’s see how rusty those skills have gotten, old man.”

 

“You’re mad,” says David, a touch of wonder in his tone, but he’s already bending down to untie his shoes. “Completely mad, I can’t take you anywhere.”

 

James just laughs, running to the ball, doing some tricks while David pulls off his shoes. He gets lost in it, like he always does, the rhythm of the ball bouncing off his body like a mantra, his breath deepening into a familiar cadence. He must have been at it for a while, because when he looks up, David is standing barefoot in the grass, the light from the street casting deep shadows on his face.

 

David looks bigger somehow, like he sometimes did when he was coming towards you on the field, powerful and immovable. The familiar swell of adrenaline fills James’s veins as much as his ankles and knees start throbbing in phantom pain from all the tackles they’ve felt in their lifetime.

 

“You know,” David says, his face unreadable, “after all these years, it seems like the field was the only place I ever really knew you. Everywhere else, I think you left me behind a long time ago."

 

His tone isn’t accusing or angry, merely quiet, like someone might state a fact they’d studied for a long time and James feels a flash of white hot shame race like a whip across his back. The ball falls to the floor with a muted thump.

 

"So let's play," he says.

 

It soon becomes apparent that this is no playful match between two senior players. James can almost hear his childhood coach scolding him for picking up this high of a pace without warming up first.

 

They’d both always been competitive, especially with each other and the field was the only place where they were allowed to show that unrestrained. David has lost some of his speed, but none of his technique and James finds himself struggling to keep the ball. David seems to be coming from everywhere at once, blocking his progress upfield.

 

They spin around in circles, gaining a few meters of space before the other swoops in to take the ball from their feet. James keeps his eye on the goal at all times, but he keeps getting distracted by David, who never seems to let him breathe, pushing in close, breathing down his neck. He feels the sweat start beading on his temple and running down the back of his expensive shirt. It’s probably ruined now.

 

It feels like there’s a conversation going on between their feet, but it’s in a foreign language and James doesn’t have the dictionary. David is playing like he has something to prove and James is getting so frustrated he wants to scream, because he just doesn’t understand what David wants from him and that’s much too familiar.

 

Familiar like those last few weeks, when he’d clutched at the phone and listened to the static or when they’d stood opposite each other in James’s living room, the air between them full of breaking promises and unsaid arguments. James hadn’t understood then, just like he doesn’t understand now, and David isn’t giving any answers, except for his piercing stare and unforgiving pace, and they’re getting closer to the goal line.

 

James has the ball and he has the shot, but as he readies to take it, the ground is empty. David steals the ball from under his feet and sends it unceremoniously to the back of the net.

 

And that’s familiar too.

 

James stands in the middle of a barely lit football field on the outskirts of London, with the sound of Castelao Fortaleza in his ears, watching the ball hit the net, Ospina’s anguished scream a backdrop to his own heart breaking. It’s shameful to admit it though, but it was David’s joy at scoring that was the biggest blow of it all, the smile he knew he loved making his dreams turn to ash in him mouth.

 

“Who’s the old man now?” David calls out, but his voice is weak and not because of the deep breaths they’re both taking. James takes in the tightness in his shoulders and his clenched fist, the only thing he can make out in the semi-darkness, and finally feels a glimmer of understanding. He fishes the ball out of the net and stands with it at his feet until David catches his breath.

 

“Come on, again.” James says, pointing to the goal on the opposite side of the field.

 

He runs a few paces and then passes the ball to a bewildered David who stumbles over the pass before he manages to return it. And from then, the game is totally different.

 

It’s the simplest of exercises, a staple of every training session both of them have ever had; just passing the ball back and forth while moving. But James changes his run, varies the speed and the distance of the pass, daring David to keep up.

 

By the halfway line they can read each other’s minds.

 

James feels a smile grow on his face as David drops back to intercept his back-heel pass, more showing off than anything else, speeding up to catch the high ball David sends back. He feels David’s grin in the way the ball stops perfectly on his chest, bouncing to rest at his feet.

 

They’re at the goal way too quickly and from the position he’s in, James sees at least a hundred ways to slot the ball home, a hundred beautiful goals just waiting to be scored. Instead, he stops the ball and sends it to David in pass as perfectly precise and calculated as the angles he could never quite wrap his head around in school. 

 

David scores.

 

“And it’s a beautiful goal from David Luiz, assisted by James Rodriguez!” James says, letting his accent color the words in Spanish. He runs across the field to David, locked in place with confusion, and wraps his arms around him.

 

As David’s arms come up to wrap around his shoulders, it occurs to James that this is the first goal they’d ever gotten to celebrate together. It’s a good feeling.

 

“You are completely crazy.” David says when they pull apart, but James can see the sparkle in his eyes, and it makes him laugh.

 

“That’s what my daughter says too.” James says, turning around to grab the ball from the net and tucking it under his arm.

 

“What was that all about, anyway?” David asks and James sighs in frustration.

 

“You tell me,” he says.

 

“I…” David stops, at a loss and James shakes his head, crouching down where his shoes are, attempting to calculate how many blisters wearing them without socks will cause.

 

“You know,” James says, after it becomes apparent that David is just going to stay silent, “I watched this documentary once. About the 2005 Champions League final in Istanbul. You remember that?”

 

“Yeah,” David nods, “I played against Liverpool a few times. They don’t let you forget it.”

 

“The narrator said something that really stuck with me. He said that; ‘every football match is a story, told in passes between twenty-two feet. The goals are the climax and every match is either a tragedy or a heroic play, depending on who is reading it.’ I think that’s true.” James says, tying his shoelaces.

 

“But I also think that, because we say so much with what we do on the field, we forget that real life requires that we put things in words sometimes,” he adds.

 

“I don’t understand you. Isn’t playing a match also real life? It was your life, and mine,” David says, as they start walking together to the edge of the field.

 

“Sure. In many ways, the match was the realest thing about the lives we were living,” James says quietly. “But we aren’t playing matches in front of thousands anymore, David.”

 

David nods, reaching forward to take the ball from James’s unresisting hands, placing it on the ground near the bush where they’d found it.

 

They’re standing on the line where the sidewalk meets the field, grass and mud giving into cold cement. The streetlight above throws the wrinkles on their faces in stark contrast and James suddenly feels every hour of his forty-two years. David’s eyes are dark and shining, and James sees his face reflected in them, somewhat softer, younger.

 

A car whizzes by them; one of the newer solar models, with a motor that’s nearly silent, but the loudest thing in the silence between them.

 

They step apart, and James looks away.

 

“We should go.” David says quietly, abruptly turning to walk down the street. James nods, running to catch up with David’s long strides.

 

The walk back to the restaurant is much longer than the one before, filled with silence and a choking tension. There are less people outside now, allowing them to maintain a distance between them as they walk.

 

“Where are you parked?” David eventually breaks the silence.

 

“Nowhere,” James blurts out, then corrects himself, “I mean, I took the underground.”

 

“Oh,” David’s face morphs into a confused expression, “come on then. I’ll take you then. My car is a block from here.”

 

“You don’t have to…” James starts, but David waves him off, almost annoyed. “Alright then, just so I don’t get kidnapped on the way back.”

 

“Wouldn’t want that,” David laughs, but it’s still strangely subdued and James spends the rest of the walk following him silently.

 

He can’t help laughing when he sees the car though.

 

It’s a big one, almost a mini-van and James is surprised it hasn’t gotten vandalized, with the big Chelsea logo in prominent display on the sides, since the hairdresser next to the parking lot is proudly declaring itself to be owned by a Gunner.

 

“What?” David says, immediately defensive, “I sometimes have to drive the kids back from practice!”

 

“Right,” James snorts, “and I bet you pack them lunches and keep extra blankets in the back.”

 

David says nothing, but there’s an embroidered blanket in the passenger seat, so he really doesn’t have to. David waits for James to buckle in, cheekily straightening the blanket that James puts over his knees. In his defense, it’s pretty chilly outside and the blanket is warm.

 

And then, they’re off, passing the robotic parking attendant, who, James can’t help but notice, has Arsenal stickers all over his claw-like arms. He discreetly flips over the Chelsea logo on the blanket, paranoid.

 

David asks him for the address of it hotel, but after James answers, the car falls into silence.

 

The city passes them by in bursts of furious, blinding activity even at the late hour. Their car is quiet as it drifts across the streets, David calmly navigating through the sparser evening traffic.

 

David hums along to a song on the radio, something familiar and peaceful, and James watches the darkness of his profile against the flashing lights and thinks about regrets.

 

He feels almost like he’s dreaming. The light, the absence of color and the incessant moving of his surroundings make for a surreal backdrop to David in the driver’s seat, blurring around the edges and smelling like increasingly familiar cologne. James reaches over to pinch the vulnerable skin of his inner wrist, but hesitates. If the whole night had been a dream, it’s been a nice one and he doesn’t want to wake up in his own bed, aching and lonely.

 

“What are you looking at?” David asks. “Is there something on my face?”

 

He turns all the way towards James, keeping one eye on the traffic, and pulls the stupidest face imaginable; tongue sticking out, eyes squinting and James can’t help it. He laughs.

 

“Nope,” James rolls his eyes, “just your face and that’s bad enough.”

 

It’s not a dream.

 

Because in James’s dreams, David is always serious, sad or angry, never pulling silly faces to make James laugh. Only the real David does that, abandoning his own pride to make James feel better.

 

So it’s not a dream, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have its ending, the harsh wake-up call.

 

It’s jarring, when David turns on his signal and slides smoothly into the driveway of James’s hotel, coming to a stop in front of the entrance.

 

“So, I guess this is goodbye,” David says, turning to him, a smile stretching across his face, and James almost winces at how painfully fake it is.

 

“I…” James flounders, lost for words, his eyes flicking between David’s face and the bright LED lights of the hotel outside the window.

 

There’s an unfortunately mustached concierge waiting at the foot of the steps and he starts towards them. James can almost hear the words forming on his lips: “May I take your keys, Sir?” or “You can’t park here, Sir”, depending on how windswept they look.

 

The lights of the hotel are invasive after the peaceful cocoon of the car, yellow light spilling from the windows of hundreds of souls far away from home, lonely or not, but displaced all the same.

 

David’s smile drops slowly in the face of James’s silence and he looks tired and vulnerable in the harsh light of the hotel that’s flooding the car. James can count the wrinkles on his face, every pale grey hair curling on his temple. He wants to touch him, run the pad of his finger over the thin skin above his upper eyelid, just to force David to shut his eyes, to stop him from watching James like that.

 

The moment feels like it’s hanging off a cliff’s edge, like James is playing the most important game of his life and he’d just been given a free kick from the edge of the penalty box.

 

The uniformed concierge has just about reached them, frowning disapprovingly around his moustache.

 

“Go,” James says, and feels a surge of adrenaline run through his body, injecting his voice with a sense of urgency. “Keep driving.”

 

“Wha- ”

 

“Take me home, David.”

 

And perhaps he wasn’t captain of his national team for nothing, because something in the tone of his voice has David obeying. Maybe, it’s because both of them have been trained to listen to that voice since they were little. Or maybe David has been expecting to hear it all along.

 

They speed pass the startled concierge, merging seamlessly into the evening traffic.

 

The best thing about a goal is the brief moment of victory right after, the feeling of taking a moment and making it entirely about yourself in the eyes of thousands, secure in the knowledge that you’ve done something important and valued. Something that won’t be forgotten.

 

David’s breathing is measured, calm, but his hands are clenched tightly on the steering wheel, knuckles just off the edge of white.

 

The worst thing about a goal is that the game isn’t over after you score. The blessed moment of elation gives way into the frantic racing fight to defend your position.

 

But life isn’t a football match, and James meets David’s eyes in the reflection of the car window and the look on his face is something he’s never seen before.

 

He’s only distantly aware of the world outside of the car; a turn; then highway, lined with LED billboards and over caffeinated truck drivers; an exit and then half-empty pavements, the people indistinct in the shine of the streetlights.

 

Finally, David takes a turn and the car passes through a door to an underground garage of a tall apartment building.

 

David slams the car door on his way out, barely waiting for James to get out before he’s locking the doors. James has to jog to keep up with his long strides, silently cursing their height difference.

 

They take the elevator up to the third floor. Nobody speaks, except for the obnoxiously loud robotic voice announcing which level they’re on. David’s got his hands pushed deep into his pockets and he’s bouncing ever so slightly on the soles of his feet. James wonders if his ankle is hurting. They’ve been on their feet for a while.

 

They exit the elevator to head down a short hallway. Their shoes are silent on the carpet and James winces a bit with each step, feeling the blisters forming on his feet.

 

David stops at a nondescript door with no name on the door and James wonders if he still gets stalker fans or overenthusiastic reporters breaking in to try and catch a glimpse of him. He allows himself to appreciate the cut of David’s figure as he struggles with his keys, and concludes that lonely housewives or househusbands are the more likely option.

 

David finally manages to open the door, almost tripping on a stray football that someone left on the floor of the hallway.

 

James follows him in, immediately drawn to the myriad of pictures hung on the wall, familiar faces watching them as they take off their shoes.

 

“Slippers?” David finally breaks the silence and James tears his attention from a framed shot of the Brazil national team posing for a selfie. There are a lot of those up there, probably Neymar’s work, from the angle and the subtle instagram filter.

 

“Yeah, sure. Not those,” James says to the two giant fluffy football balls proffered in his direction. David grins and puts them back into the closet, throwing a more regular looking pair in James’s direction.

 

He moves past David, who is still trying to hang their coats on the overfull hooks. The hallway closet has several things hanging in it that James can see: an official Chelsea FC umbrella, a PSG puffy coat, a giant wooden stick and what looks like a replica of the Champions league trophy. Or maybe it’s the real one and David just never gave it back.

 

There’s a lot of David and his family up on the walls, and David with his teams, and autographed pictures of football legends. James stops to stare at the picture of Pele, the scrawled black letters on it fading into the black and white photograph.

 

The hallway is narrow, made narrower by the too wide frames, but when David passes by, he takes care not to touch James. It’s probably wise, but it still makes James want to take a step into his path, to crowd him against the colorful mosaic of the Brazilian national flag and-.

 

David disappears around the corner. James’s pulse is thundering in his ears and he tries to remember if there’s heart medication he should be taking right now. But then again, his heart has always done its own thing around David.

 

There’s a picture of James at the very end of the hallway. It’s nothing special at first glance; James in dirtied up white, holding up the La Liga trophy with a great big smile on his face. James can’t tell if it’s his first or the ones that came after, but he thinks he looks happy.

 

“Are you coming?” David’s voice comes from the other room and James leaves the picture behind, moving further into the apartment.

 

The hallway opens into a big open space that seems to function as the living room and the kitchen at the same time. David has only turned on the LED lights on the kitchen counter, presumably to not distract from the floor length windows that make up the far wall.

 

“See any familiar faces?” he hears David say through the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing.

 

“One or two,” James lets his feet take him closer to the further wall, drawn to the lights outside. “Where are the match shirts?”

 

“Home in Diadema. Not enough space for all of them here and I spend most of my time there anyway.”

 

James reaches the window, watching as his breath fogs up the glass. London opens up in front of him in a cascade of lights; apartment buildings, illuminated billboards and straight lines of lit up streets and in the backdrop of it all, Stamford Bridge silhouetted against the maroon night sky.

 

“You’ve got a nice view.”

 

“I guess so.” David says and James can make out his reflection in the window, distorted by the light and the glass. “I think I wanted something familiar.”

 

“Isn’t it funny, the life we led,” James says, watching David’s reflection nervously fiddle with a dish towel. “A new home in every city we ever played in. Temporary, but always similar.”

 

“Didn’t take you for a philosopher,” David folds up the dish towel carefully, laying it on the counter. “Can I offer you something to drink? Water, juice, coffee?”

 

“No, thank you.” James says, still dizzy from the way the lights fit into reflection-David’s hair. His hands are sweaty and he clenches them in the fabric of his pants to keep them still. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

 

And that’s really all it takes. David’s face turns into a painful grimace and James watches as he braces his hands against the counter-top, like it’s the only thing holding him up.

 

“Look, I don’t get you. I keep thinking that you’re right here with me in this, but then you pull away and I don’t know what to do to get you back.” David runs a nervous hand through his curls and James looks away from his reflection, focuses on the buildings outside. “James, I’ve been waiting for twenty years, and this needs to end now.”

 

It’s a comfort to hear, as much as it makes his temper flare. If David wants a confrontation, James is going to give him one, because David isn’t the only one who’s been waiting.

 

“You remember that transfer season?” James says, proud of how calm his voice sounds. “A lot of English clubs were shopping around then. Porto knew that Chelsea was bidding for you at Benfica, but not many people knew that Porto was approached by Arsenal at about the same time. For me.”

 

“James, what…” He doesn’t let David finish, because now that he’s started talking, he can’t stop. It feels like it all happened yesterday, the wound is so fresh.

 

“My agent showed me the contract. I had it in front of me, the day they announced you were going to London. I had it in front of me the next day. And then the day after. But you never called.” He’d waited for almost a month, long enough for his agent to grow frustrated enough that he’d threatened to leave.

 

“You can’t be saying this to me, James, it’s unfair. You had Daniela!” James watches the tense line of David’s shoulders, hands still braced against the counter top. His blood feels like it’s boiling in his veins.

 

“I had no one! Do you think I wouldn’t have left her in a heartbeat, if you’d just said anything? David, I was in love with you!”

 

And there it is. The most honest James has been with anyone in over twenty years. He looks up in time to see David’s jaw slacken in surprise, the reflection blurry because of James’s harsh breaths fogging the glass.

 

“But you were nineteen, James. I couldn’t ask that of you, no matter what I wanted.” David says and he’s still not listening and James doesn’t know what to say to make him understand.

 

“I was nineteen and under pressure, completely in love and terrified of what that meant! You confused me, saying something with your actions and then something entirely different with your words.”

 

“You’re saying that you would have moved halfway across the continent to be my rival again?” David reaches up to tug at his curls and it almost makes James want to quit, want to stop arguing, just to wipe that helpless look off David’s face. “I can’t believe that. Porto loved you!”

 

“You still aren’t listening to me. Whatever we were, we weren’t ‘just rivals’ or ‘just friends’ or ‘just fuck buddies’ or whatever you want to call us! I would have left Porto for that in a heartbeat.”

 

Just like that, the anger drains out of him and all James feels is tired. He wishes, not for the first time, that he were back in Portugal, back to being young and reckless and in love. He wishes he could cross the distance between them; wrap David up in a hug and lose himself in him.

  
David has always had an expressive face. James watches the emotions fly over it; from frustration, to anger, to shock and sadness. He wonders what his face is showing, if anything.

 

“You weren’t just a fuck, James! Don’t ever say that!” David moves from the kitchen, takes a few steps towards where James is standing. His eyes, dark and desperate, meet James’s in the window and pin him in place. “Fuck, I’ve been in love with you for over twenty years without even a shred of hope that my feelings could be reciprocated. You avoided me like the plague, never returned my calls or my texts. How was I supposed to know, James?”

 

David’s words hit him like a punch.

 

 _‘I’ve been in love with you for twenty years.’_ David says it like it’s easy, like it’s obvious, but James didn’t know, not really.

 

“I guess I just assumed you did. And that it didn’t matter?” He winces at how sad his voice sounds, how pathetically hopeful and how his heart skips a beat when David’s face finally fills with understanding.

 

“Is that why you never asked me to stay?”

 

“Would you have, honestly? The move to Chelsea was the best thing for your career, everyone knew that.”

 

“I would have stayed. I would have stayed for you and maybe I wouldn’t have been David Luiz, but I would have been happy with you.”

 

David sounds convinced, like he’s thought about it for days instead of having it sprung on him right then. The words are painful to hear, more painful than James would have though, the devotion and love cutting like a weapon.

 

“You can’t know that. Maybe it would have torn us apart still. The secrecy, the competition.”

 

James is scared; he can admit it to himself now. David’s eyes look soft, the bow of his body in the stark kitchen light, inviting. All James needs to do is turn around and take those last few steps to close the distance between them.

 

“I guess it doesn’t matter now. Neither of us asked and we both left.” David says, and the words are pained.

 

“I was happy with Daniela for a while. I had Salome, my greatest gift and I was playing for some of the greatest clubs in the world, but David, you were always there. Always at the back of my mind, always just a step behind me when I ran.”

 

“So stop running,” it’s David who takes the last few steps between them, who stops close enough that James can feel the warmth of his body through his jacket, his breath against the back of his neck. It’s electrifying.

 

“David…” It’s David, always David.

 

“If I asked you to stay, here with me, try to make this thing that’s been between us into a real relationship, what would you say?” David leans in to whisper it against his neck and the words are sure, but James can feel David’s whole body shaking behind him.

 

“Yes.”

 

David’s arms come up to tighten against his middle, slotting their bodies closer and James turns his head just in time to capture David’s lips with his own. The angle is awkward and their noses keep bumping. They’re several storeys up, but James has never felt more grounded.

 

He reaches up to cup David’s jaw in his hands, stopping the kiss just long enough to turn around in David’s arms, still warm and perfect and trapping around his waist.

 

Now that he’s touching David, he can’t seem to stop, trailing his fingers down his cheek, memorizing the new wrinkles, the soft texture of David’s skin. He brushes his thumb against the bow of David’s mouth and David presses a kiss to it, feather soft and lingering, and James’s pulse grows impossibly quicker. He slips his hand into David’s curls and slots their lips together, tilting his head to kiss him better. David presses him up against the window and James dizzily thinks about all the lights and all the people who could see them, but David chooses that moment to slip his hand underneath his shirt, and James can’t really think about anything else.

 

Despite the heat pooling quickly in the pit of his stomach, their kisses are still achingly slow, and David seems to be in no hurry, tracing his fingers over the curves of James’s back muscles, but he breaks the kiss with a gasp when James reaches down to grip his ass, pressing them even closer.

 

“Bed. Now.” James whispers against his lips and feels David shudder against him. They grope their way blindly in the direction of what is presumably David’s bedroom, shedding clothing and tripping over furniture.

 

Still, David wouldn’t be David if he weren’t so charmingly sweet. He takes a step back, making James frown after him.

 

“Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?” he says, and he looks so worried and hopeful that James has to laugh.

 

“David, my shirt is hanging over your couch, my pants are halfway unbuttoned and I think my slippers are hanging on the mantelpiece. Don’t you think if I didn’t want this, I’d have stopped it by now?”

 

“Just making sure.” They kiss again, but James can feel a familiar doubt returning.

 

“Are you sure? That you want me?” James asks and David snorts, looking down between them meaningfully, where his still buttoned up dress pants are strained against his crotch.

 

“Oh,” James says, reaching down to pop the offending button. “That’s fine then.”

 

David grins and kisses him again, and they’re in the middle of the hallway, but James winds his fingers into his curls and keeps him there.

 

A couple of minutes later and it seems like they won’t even make it to the bedroom, David has James pressed against the wall and his hands are everywhere. James reluctantly stops him, gripping his hands in his own, because his knee is already feeling the strain of standing up for so long.

 

“Come on, bed. You’re not as young as you used to be,” he murmurs against David’s lips, grinning at the answering snort.

 

“I’ve still got some life left in me,” David pulls away, leading him down the short hallway and through a door on the right, “which I intend to prove to you.”

 

“Oh, yeah?” James looks around the room curiously, but is prevented from further comments when David tumbles them onto the bed, laughing at James’s indignant shriek.

 

“Yeah.”

 

 

*

 

 

James wakes up slowly. There’s a toe dragging a slow path along the instep of his foot and it tickles. He flinches away, only for the arm draped over his torso to tighten, the chest pressed to his back rumbling with laughter.

 

“First time I can remember waking up before you.” David murmurs into his neck, making James shiver and press closer.

 

“Did I make you wait?” James whispers back, raising this hand to lace their fingers together.

 

“A little,” David says, “but it was worth it,” and James feels David’s smile press against the back of his neck and it makes him smile too.

 

The sun has just barely risen and it’s spilling through the gap in the curtains, lines of bright yellow that mean James had finally slept through a sunrise. He’s sweating a little under the covers, because David always runs hot and his knee has grown stiffer overnight, but he can deal with that later.

 

He feels good.

 

James turns around in David’s arms, but pulls them back around himself as soon as he settles. David looks beautiful in the sunlight, his curls spilled across the pillow like gold and his eyes shining with love. He leans forward to press his lips to the corner of David’s mouth, then another to his jaw, his cheek, the tip of his nose. When he slots their lips together, barely pressing, it’s familiar and comforting, like coming home after a long trip.

 

“You know what we should do now?” James says when they separate.

 

“Mmm, what’s that?” David asks and sends him the most adorably naughty grin that James has to press another kiss to the tip of his nose, just to watch him wrinkle it indignantly.

 

“We should go back to sleep. You kept me up late last night.”

 

“I didn’t hear you complaining.” David says, but he settles down obediently, drawing James closer to tuck his head under his chin.

 

James smiles when a stray curl tickles his cheek and listens to David’s heartbeat until it goes slow, then closes his eyes to drift back to sleep.

 

 

* 

 

 

James grins at the phone in his hands, listening to David's off-key singing in the kitchen. In a moment, he'll put his phone down, walk into the kitchen and try to salvage the eggs from where David has probably burnt them beyond recognition. Or maybe he'll move close instead, press a kiss against David's shoulder and crowd him against the counter, kiss him until the eggs actually start burning. In any case, the eggs have no chance.

 

The sun is high in the sky and they day is well on it's way, and James stands in the bedroom of David's apartment, his mind finally still, empty of doubts and fears.

 

He wishes it could stay this way forever.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://neyvenger.tumblr.com/), we can cry over footballers together.


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